The MASH Up

by Laura Marie Meyers

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

"Laura Marie Meyers’ debut novel glows with charm, humor, and heart. An irresistible, page-turning treat from first laugh to last swoon." —Emily Giffin, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Love You More

It’s all fun and games until someone falls in love.

MANSION • APARTMENT • SHACK • HOUSE


Ruby Wynne is a staunch rule-follower who lives by the numbers. So when a surprising breakup – on her thirty-fifth birthday – ruins all her well-laid plans, Ruby makes an unexpected wish . . . Only to wake up inside a M.A.S.H. game from seventh grade.

Settled in a Technicolor mansion, driving a tie-dye Jeep, and running a roller-disco restaurant, Ruby is living out her childhood dreams come true—with one exception. According to the game, Ruby’s “other half” is supposed to be Penn Hayes, her brother’s annoying, and annoyingly handsome, best friend. But there’s zero romance between them. Just like in real life, all they share is sarcasm. With no rules to follow and desperate to return to reality, Ruby makes her best guess at an escape plan: win Penn’s heart so the game comes completely true and she can go home.

It’s unthinkable. On Ruby’s list of dos and don’ts, Penn Hayes is a lifelong don’t. But as Ruby navigates the magical world she dreamed up at thirteen, she wonders if, by finally throwing out her rules, she might just find her way home to the life and love she deserves.

Release date: July 7, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 336

Sample

CAUTION: This email originated from outside of Penguin Random House. Please be extra cautious when opening file attachments or clicking on links.

1

Drumroll, Please

I certainly didn't plan to celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday wearing body glitter.

And yet, here I am. Reluctantly shimmering.

"Stay still," Bridget demands. Holding my chin, she shifts my face toward the flickering bathroom light and presses what's basically a glitter-covered glue stick to my temple.

Years ago, preparing for my first official day of work as an accountant, I visited the makeup counter at the mall, where a woman named Cheryl with the sharpest eyebrows I'd ever seen told me that I was an autumn. She suggested berry shades to complement my dark hair and olive complexion, and the next day I strutted into the office wearing a lip color called "moody fig," which I've worn every day since.

Something tells me Cheryl wouldn't approve of Barbie pink chunks of glitter, for any occasion at all, ever, on anyone. I say as much to Bridget.

"Trust me," she says. "You need something to brighten you up. It's Saturday night! It's your birthday! And you look like a disgruntled Ann Taylor employee."

"I look fine," I argue. I'm wearing my favorite silk tank with my go-to black heels and perfectly nice black trousers, thankyouverymuch.

Bridget adds one last swipe of sparkles before admiring her handiwork. "Don't worry," she assures me with a nod, her blond ponytail bobbing like she's still leading cheers on the sidelines. "It's waterproof."

Perfect.

If I had my way, we'd have celebrated tonight with an early reservation somewhere in the city, the evening ending promptly at nine. Rules are rules, though, and every other year, Ryan gets to choose how we spend our shared birthday. So, instead, I'm at the grimy dive bar in my suburban hometown thirty minutes outside of Chicago, hiding from all the former classmates with whom my brother inexplicably keeps in touch. Ryan specifically wanted to celebrate at Curly's because the bar's manager is his best friend, Penn Hayes-the lifelong nuisance who grew up next door.

Having an extroverted twin is a real hazard to my mental health.

Bridget drags me back into the fray, weaving me through the crowd. Everything here is sticky: the tables, the floors, the gossip slurred between neighbors late at night. The place is a Lakeville institution, though, with Christmas lights looping the ceiling year-round, a Chicago Bears flag hanging over the bar, and brick walls covered in framed Little League photos that haven't changed in decades.

Tonight, thanks to Bridget, there's also a shirtless Harry Styles poster taped beside our table. She organized a rousing game of Pin the Kiss on the Harry, in which I stood, blindfolded, and pressed a mouth-shaped sticker over Harry's left nipple. Bridget deemed it the jackpot.

"There you are," Connor whispers. "I was starting to think you'd made a run for it."

I sit on the stool beside him, and he slips a reassuring arm over my shoulders. He must sense my nerves-likely because he shares them. We share everything: an office, an apartment, a five-o'clock alarm. Not even for our firm's holiday party do we stay out past nine, so I'm sure he's as ready as I am for our exit. This is a man who can't stand bars and keeps hand sanitizer on his key ring.

The jukebox has been taken over by a Britney Spears superfan. From the seat opposite me, Bridget yells to be heard over the "Toxic" chorus. "Where's Ryan?"

I gesture behind her. "Approaching from your six o'clock."

My brother arrives wearing his happy-drunk grin and drops another tray of bad ideas onto the table. With a bow, he slides one tequila shot to Connor-"Good sir"-and another toward Bridget-"Madam"-and then arches an eyebrow at me. "Ruby? Just one?"

I cannot take him seriously when he's in a hamburger-print button-down. He's always had an affinity for funny shirts and bright sneakers. "Yeah, no," I say on a laugh. "It's water o'clock. You should have some, too."

Ryan's dark hair falls across his forehead as he tips his head in disapproval. "C'mon, Ru. It's our birthday. Officially."

"Officially!" Bridget repeats.

"And I'm officially hydrating."

The two of them clink their glasses together for a toast, and as they knock back what must be the well-est of well tequilas, Connor casually nudges his shot to the side.

Bridget coughs. "Was that bleach?"

"Unclear," Ryan squeaks out. "It was on the house."

From where I sit, I have a clear view of the poison shots provider.

Penn stands behind the beer dispenser wearing a charcoal-gray Curly's T-shirt, a white towel thrown over one shoulder, and his brown hair curls out from beneath a backward navy baseball hat. As if he can feel my irritated stare from across the room, he looks up, and there it is: the obnoxious half-smirk that still manages to wedge under my skin like a hangnail.

I narrow my eyes, catching his laugh before I look away.

Bridget reaches into her fanny pack and pulls something out, hiding it in her fist. "I have a surprise," she teases.

I suppress a groan. I love Bridget, but I hate surprises.

She smiles knowingly. "Trust me," she insists. "It's a good surprise, Ruby."

"Trust me," I echo back. "There's no such thing."

Ryan angles for a peek. "What is it?"

Bridget's mischievous gaze meets mine. I pray she isn't holding what I think she's holding. A few years back, she brought out "low-dose" gummy-bear edibles, and I woke up spooning a bag of Pirate's Booty, unexplained frosting on my cheeks.

Luckily, all she reveals is a folded-up piece of paper, its scraggly edges clearly ripped from a notebook. "Please tell me that's not a note from high school," I say, pulling a face.

"Better," Bridget teases, unfurling the page slowly for dramatic effect. "It's a precious artifact from sleepovers of yore. A game of MASH from seventh grade, lovingly preserved by yours truly."

That pulls a laugh out of me. "No way."

I haven't thought about MASH in years. We used to love playing the fortune-telling game. Sitting cross-legged on our sleeping bags, we'd imagine who we might become someday, painstakingly trying to rig the game to make it match our ideal futures, as if any of the options we listed might actually come true.

"What's mash?" Connor asks.

"Mansion, apartment, shack, house," Ryan says.

"You pick four choices for different categories," Bridget explains. "Your future partner, your job, your car, pets, how many kids you'll have-"

"How many pools," Ryan adds.

"How many pools?" Connor asks, bewildered.

Ryan throws up a hand. "Yeah. It's a whole thing."

"-and then you get a number, you cross off items, and you're left with your future," Bridget finishes brightly.

Connor's brow furrows, as if he's trying to understand the appeal.

This is what I love most about him. He's not a roll-the-dice, leave-it-to-fate kind of guy. He sets goals and achieves them. The future Connor and I mapped out together isn't a game; it's a plan. A shared folder full of spreadsheets, every color-coded table outlining what we'll do in a month, a year, five. He does what he says he'll do, as predictable as the drunken dance party Ryan will start before the night ends, my brother's enthusiastic Macarena always on standby.

Connor William Reynolds III is the safest bet I've ever made.

Bridget clears her throat, brandishing the loose-leaf page like it's a medieval scroll. "Lady and gentlemen, twenty-two years ago, here's where thirteen-year-old Ruby Wynne was headed." She smiles to herself. "Ruby lives in a mansion here in Lakeville with not one but two pools, and she drives a tie-dye Jeep Wrangler." A pause for our laughter. "She has zero children, exactly thirteen pet fish, and an illustrious career as-drumroll, please-a roller-skating waitress."

I burst out laughing, my hands covering my face, when Ryan knocks his shoulder into mine. "How did I forget about your big dreams of opening a roller-rink restaurant?"

I'd forgotten, too.

There used to be a small rink at the edge of town, and in middle school, we'd skate in the afternoons before eating at the diner next door-one of the few spots that offered allergy-friendly options for Ryan. I wanted to combine the two places. Back then, it seemed like the perfect way to spend a day: gliding among the booths, carrying trays of food to friends.

On a laugh, Connor's head juts back. "This Ruby wanted a roller-rink restaurant?"

Connor went to our rival high school, and we didn't date until we connected in our early thirties, so he didn't bear witness to my awkward years. Or my dumb ones.

My cheeks flush. "It was silly. I wanted neon lights and tables that glowed in the dark."

"So, the obvious path was accounting," Ryan deadpans.

I grin, but as Connor squeezes my knee, I feel the strange gap between then and now. This Ruby hasn't been on skates in years. This Ruby chose finance and Connor for a reason: Real life doesn't leave room for silly games.

"Time for Ruby's other half," Bridget says, gathering the group's attention. "Believe it or not, that title belongs to . . ." She arches an eyebrow. "What do you know? Penn Hayes."

An instant, searing flush scorches my body from the inside out.

"Ruby and Penn," Ryan roars, shaking his head. "Can you imagine?"

"No." It's all I can say. My only thought. No.

I catch Ryan's hysterical laugh before all the sounds drown out of the room, or maybe just out of my mind.

Maybe I'm dead.

Picturing myself with Penn has actually killed me.

My eyes dart to the bar as if he's watching. As if he might have heard. So help me, if Penn ever gets wind of the game, he'll never let me hear the end of it.

Thankfully, he's busy pouring beers for a few backslapping Bears fans.

Flustered, I yank the paper from Bridget's hands. It's surreal, seeing her loopy letters on the page, realizing how rarely I see my best friend's handwriting now that we communicate exclusively in text messages and DMs. Scribbled out in purple gel ink are the jobs that weren't chosen: teacher, doctor, writer. The cars I didn't get: convertible, VW Bug, limo. The men I didn't end up with: Devon Sawa; "hot lifeguard"; our old classmate, Theo Ford, who, after a brief stint as a tween Hollywood heartthrob, now works at this very bar.

Sure enough, circled three times over: Penn Hayes.

"Bridget put him in as a joke," I explain, wishing my voice didn't sound so shaky. "That's the game: You always include the worst-case scenario, just for fun."

Connor eyes me, curious, as Bridget nods in solidarity. "True. I-"

A loud, ringing bell cuts her off, and the room erupts in scattered groans.

Last call. Finally.

Ryan claps once, hard, like a coach rousing his team. "One more round!"

Bridget offers him a salute. "Say no more."

As my two favorite idiots make a beeline to the bar, I lean against Connor. "Almost there," I say on a sigh, relieved. "Bed is in sight. Clean sheets. And no more surprises, thank God."

Connor stiffens.

"What's wrong?" I stifle a yawn. "You wish we had a tie-dye Jeep?"

He doesn't laugh. "No. I-I actually have a surprise for you, too."

"You? Have a surprise? For me?"

Being out past sunset must have him confused. No surprises is an essential, unspoken rule of our relationship, along with put everything on the calendar and don't talk about work before breakfast and save the last, best bite of every ice cream cone for Ruby.

Connor takes my hand. "Yeah, all this talk about your imaginary future is sort of funny, because I've been wanting to talk to you about . . . ours."

"Oh, no. Is this about that house I sent you from Zillow?" I wince. "Obviously, buying a home is several years away, but I was just looking. You know I'm a sucker for porches."

"No, Ruby." He laughs. "This isn't about Zillow." As he shifts to meet my eyes, a sweet, nervous smile takes over his face.

This isn't like him. Connor has never surprised me, not once, and he's never nervous.

He reaches for my other hand, lowering his gaze. He-

My breath catches.

Ohmygod. He's about to propose.

Connor is delirious, and he's about to propose. In a dive bar. On my birthday.

He can't. Not now. Not here, where it smells like sweat and Doritos. Not while Weezer is playing. No. We've discussed this. He told me to expect the proposal around the holidays. He said we'd go ring shopping this fall so I could pick out exactly what I wanted.

"Connor, no," I say quickly. "Don't do this."

"I got a job offer," he blurts out. "In New York. And I'm taking it."

I snort-laugh. "Riiight. Of course. And I'm going to open that roller-disco restaurant, too." I poke his chest. "Ryan dared you to do this, didn't he? Traitor."

Connor's face is frozen. He's impressively committed to the bit.

"Ruby," he says softly. "It's my buddy Scott's firm. Remember Scott? He, well-it all moved so quickly. They want me to start next month."

This time, my laugh is more of a wheeze.

It's a joke. This must be a joke.

Connor and I started dating the summer before my thirty-first birthday. We had Lakeville in common-along with nearly everything else. We didn't so much fall in love as we did fall in step, joining the same gym and picking up identical lunches and moving in together, until, eventually, our lives were braided together.

Two years ago, I left my first firm to work with Connor at his dad's firm. We've spent years preparing to eventually take it over together and settle down in our hometown. It's what we both want. The practical choice. The logical step before marriage. Before kids.

I shiver involuntarily. "You're not serious."

"I am."

"What about your dad? And our plans?"

"My dad is supportive," Connor says, and his smile breaks through. "He agrees that now is the time to try something new."

He keeps talking, but I can't hear what he's saying. Dazed, I watch Connor's mouth move. It's the same mouth that waited three dates to kiss me. The one that pressed against my shoulder while we slept in his childhood bedroom on Christmas Eve. The night he promised that someday, that house would be ours.

"-and we can do long-distance," he says. "If you don't want to move just yet."

That I hear loud and clear.

"What? Connor, we're not doing long-distance. And I'm not moving. Ever."

"But the firm says they're happy to meet with you, too." His wide, hopeful eyes search mine. "We can make this work."